Corset Blues


I write poetry, stories, madness. I transcribe my life into words. Beauty can be found anywhere and I guess I'm here chasing after my muse. Yet again. To contact:

She was born with two hearts. Her own and the one that belonged to her sister. She broke both on men sharp like broken glass and her sister decorated street corners with her cold smiles. She wept too often and laughed too loud and her sister injected her veins with liquid love that was temporary and left scars.

She was the dollar that bought an ice cream cone on days in the summer that melted you from your toes on up. Her sister was full of lightning and thunder the size of the moon. She lived fast, loved deep and died young. Her sister lingered for a long time like the frost of a winter that refuses to yield to spring.

  1. peachesandkimchi posted this